


I Said Stop

by FieryEclipse



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: A Shoulder to Cry On, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence, disturbing depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryEclipse/pseuds/FieryEclipse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Sylar wanted was some recognition for his efforts, but what he's about to get is not quite what he expected...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Said Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this one is quite dark(ish). Very violent and showing a vulnerable side to Peter that I don't think is addressed enough. But who can blame him really? Even the show seemed to under-appreciate all the sh*t they put poor Peter through, and he was such a trooper the whole time. He really deserved better :(  
> Anyway, ending the rambles: enjoy ^.^

 

Again and again, there were the knuckle-aching twangs of fist hitting face. Over and over the pain jarred his arm, and the sickening sounds echoed back off that godforsaken wall like voices. The whispers tutted at him, flitting all around the enclosed street and making no secret of their disapproval in the supposedly-reformed killer. They were nasty little reminders of the person he used to be. But Sylar didn't care.

 

“Is _this_ was you want?! Huh, _Petrelli_?!” His words spat out coldly, along with a little blood from his split lip and aching jaw.

 

“Sylar... Sylar _stop_ -” The little man's voice was marred by his bleeding and swelling tongue, bitten and torn as a result of too many punches. But Sylar couldn't bring himself to stop pummelling his fist into that face, feeling harsh cheekbones beneath his hand and the satisfying cushion of skin between them.

 

It had been too long since the last fight, and what made this one better was that Sylar was very much winning. It was all a game really, a well-crafted, very delicate game of authority, and no matter how many times he had to try to assert his right, Sylar _would not_ lose this time. There was only so much bruising his ego could take, after all. Who was this little Petrelli spawn to think _he_ could push and prod _Sylar_ around with no repercussions...? Sylar, who not so long ago had been the most powerful and feared man on Earth, who was unbeatable and unstoppable and unmatched by any except this particular writhing mass of muscle and bone pinned to the ground beneath his knees...?!

 

Sneering down at Peter Petrelli, Sylar took the time to swipe his own hair out of his face: a triumphant and smug motion that he had exercised many a time when needed in the darkest moments of his past. His right hand gripped tighter onto the front of Peter's shirt and his left once again smashed hard into that sculpted jaw, feeling the bone resist and grind satisfyingly. “That's right Peter... beg me. Beg for this to stop, tell me _I'm_ right and this will all be over...” They were currently sprawled out on the empty street, the only two living, breathing beings in the whole entire world, with the smaller man on his back and the winner straddling him, very much in control of the situation and loving every minute of it. Merely seconds ago it could have been called a fight, but now it could only really be classed as a triumph. Peter had resisted Sylar's apologies and reminded him of his past actions one too many times, until he had finally cracked and fallen back into the role of the psychopath serial killer that Peter clearly still thought of him as.

 

Living up to his namesake, Peter was a Petrelli through and through, although he was by far the best of the bunch. But “stubborn” was a consistent family trait, and flowed just as vibrantly through the youngest as it had the father (a sick, pathetic, waste of a man and an ability Sylar recalled, with still a flicker of anger for all Arthur had done) but again here, trapped alone with Peter, no matter what Sylar tried to do to prove his redemption, the little hero just couldn't accept it as genuine. Try as he might, every single time Sylar initiated a conversation or brought a plate of hand-crafted, perfectly symmetrical sandwiches to his acquaintance as a peace offering, he was rebuffed quickly by the stony glare and maddeningly cold shoulder of the only other person in the world. And so finally Sylar, being the logical being that he was, rationalised that the only way to get a rise of Peter was to give him an excuse to vent the anger that he so clearly couldn't move past.

 

But that didn't mean Sylar would just lie and take the hits without defending himself. And now he had practically won today's fight (the most recent in a surprisingly minimal series, considering their history) and Sylar was so, so pleased with himself at finally succeeding in getting a response from the usually so stoic paramedic. Sure, it wasn't exactly the kind of attention he so desperately craved, but any attention was better than none at all. And if the only way to feel the warmth of another person's skin was to hit it, Sylar was willing to comply. Especially after three years of total, agonizing isolation, and a further year and a bit with this tantalising specimen teasing him with his proximity but nothing else.

 

And so one eye-roll too many had set Sylar off, wrenching that fucking sledgehammer from Peter's surprised grasp, and the men had fallen easily back into the routine that best defined their relationship: fighting. It had been pretty even, Peter had given just as good as he got, as Sylar knew he would. He must be the worst kind of fool to underestimate this guy another time. Always determined and surprisingly resilient, there had been a moment when Peter had almost won before Sylar had distracted him with the oldest trick in the book: “look! Who's that!”. And while Peter had laughably let up to search the empty street, blinded by hope, Sylar had flipped their positions. Then he relentlessly went about smashing up that beautiful, hateful face while Peter stabbed at his ribs with his own fists.

 

Currently he was straddling Peter's thighs, his own knees against the cold, hard road and his whole body aching with the contortion. But he couldn't stop smiling and tasting the metallic residue from his split lip, because _finally_ this couldn't be denied as a victory. It was about time he had won one of the agonizing games that filled the space between them.

 

“Sylar... please...” Peter whispered, voice hoarse and with no strength left to make it strong. His hands had dropped harmlessly by his sides, but Sylar kept hitting him. There was no way he would be fooled by that – Peter never admitted defeat. And he'd be damned if he'd give Peter an easy way out of this.

 

But then suddenly, he realised that Peter wasn't just not fighting anymore, he'd actually given up. Lying slack and defeated on the red-speckled ground, arms limp and his face and whole body open to any further attack. “No!” Sylar snarled, furious that Peter would render his victory useless by _letting_ him win! This wasn't what he wanted: he wanted to hear this little wretch admit that he was wrong!

 

At first Sylar shook Peter by pulling his shirt taught to lift him off the ground. But Peter just gasped, his entire body groaning in pain and his face puffy and broken. Blood weeped from the cracks in his once smooth, creamy skin, his nose was busted, his eyelids hooded and swollen and he was now unrecognisable as the handsome man Sylar was used to seeing. Yet still, he made no further move to defend himself, so Sylar dropped him, annoyed. Peter's head made a horrible _crack!_ as it hit the concrete and he yelped, but Sylar was having none of it. The pity game wouldn't get him anywhere. Peter was stronger than this and they both knew it. He was just about to demand that he either vocally gave up or kept fighting, when a strangled, painful whimper stuttered out of Peter's throat.

 

And that, however, turned Sylar's blood cold.

 

He stared down through new eyes, horrified, not at the mess his fists had made of what was once such a pleasing face, but because he could swear the man was _crying_. But no... Peter wasn't that weak, Sylar assured himself. He was stronger – and they both knew it! Wasn't that what he'd just decided moments ago? But sure enough the tears had started rolling down Peter's face towards his ears, smearing trails in the blood, and his eyes were wet and pink from more than bruising. He was trying to keep it secret, as if biting that damaged, nerve-deadened lip would keep it in. But his chin was quivering and Sylar already knew what was happening. There was no mistaking it.

 

But he squinted his eyes at Peter anyway, just to be sure. “Why are you _crying_?!” He demanded tactlessly, completely thrown off guard and suddenly unsure what to do with himself. He would've liked to imagine that once he would've been kind in this situation but sadly that wasn't the case anymore, if it ever had been. It couldn't have been the pain that caused the breakdown, he reasoned, as Peter had proven more than enough times that he had an unusually high pain-tolerance. He'd had much worse than this before!

 

The fighting was okay, the swearing and shouting and even (yes, even) the _disgust,_ Sylar could deal with. At least he knew how to handle those. But when always so sturdy and emotionally controlled Peter _cried_ , that's when Sylar became aware that somewhere along the line this had become so much more than just that simple game of authority.

 

More angry now when faced with the beginning of guilt, he repeated harshly. “Why are you crying, Petrelli?” His fingers tightened on the thin fabric of Peter's black shirt, his nails scraping the tender skin beneath. His thigh muscles clenched involuntarily around Peter and suddenly the ground seemed to dig more painfully into his knees.

 

Now that the rouse was up, Peter lifted his bruised and battered hands to press his palms over his streaming eyes, in a weak attempt to hide his tears. But his whole body was trembling, that lopsided mouth had fallen open because he couldn't breathe through his blocked and broken nose, and the shaking, gurgling gasps and sobs that choked out of the little man terrified Sylar.

 

Motionless, clueless, he suddenly became aware that he was still sitting heavily on Peter. He'd almost forgotten that. He watched the sculpted chest heave below him as Peter tried to calm down, and Sylar found himself cursed with stinging eyes in response. But he shooed that reaction away instantly.

 

Peter forced his voice steady, but regardless, it struggled to squeeze out of his constricted throat. “I said “stop”.” He lifted his hands from his face, pointedly not looking at Sylar, and groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He sniffed harshly through a disgusting mixture of blood and snot, spat red saliva onto the ground and scrubbed at his burning eyes. A rare, obedient Sylar removed himself from straddling Peter, watching as he rolled to the side and got shakily to his feet on the third attempt.

 

Sylar just sat where he was left, his fist still balled, and felt sick with the weight of guilt settling in his gut. Great, more to add the to bottomless cavern of the stuff. His knuckles were throbbing and sticky with a mixture of both men's blood, and instead of the rush of fulfilment Sylar had come to expect from their fights, instead he felt revolting. He'd taken it too far. It had been a mistake. He shouldn't have done that.

 

And now, as he watched the smaller man stalk away with his familiar bandy-legged stride (albeit with a noticeable limp, lack of balance and sag to his shoulders) Sylar felt worse in that moment than he had about anything in years.

 

It was the first time Peter had cried in his company, ever (ignoring that awkward death-of-Nathan-fall-off-the-roof bit, of course). But this was different. Obviously he had suspected that Peter must have caved to it at one point since joining him in this nightmare: what red-blooded person wouldn't when they realised they'd lost their family, friends, loved ones, job, possessions, and meaning of life, and would hereby be stuck in a lonely, isolated city for the rest of eternity with the man who killed their beloved big brother? Not to mention that Peter was more dependent on other people, human contact and physical touch than anyone else Sylar knew. It must have been harder for him to adjust than for Sylar, of that he had no doubt. But still, he'd never once expected Peter to succumb to tears in front of him. Especially not in the midst of a fight.

 

“Wait! Peter!” he called too late, scrambling to his feet and limping after the unresponsive back. He quickly caught up due to his longer stride, and by the time he wheeled Peter around by the arm, that face was repugnantly bruising and oozing painfully from the wounds, and his tears were falling freely now. He was facing in Sylar's direction, who suspected that was just an estimate, as his eyelids seemed to be practically welded shut. It was a miracle the guy could even see where he was going. Peter tried uselessly to adjust himself into some semblance of composure, but his chin was still tight and his pouted bottom lip still quivered slightly.

 

Overwhelmed with confusion and unsure what to say next (should he apologise? Did he even deserve to? Peter had near enough started this, after all...), a nasty silence extended between them while Sylar just gaped at the mess he'd made of lovely little Peter Petrelli. To both his body and soul.

 

Today's fight hadn't even been that different than the others (yes, the unrelenting face beating was probably a little overkill, and he _had_ persisted even after Peter had literally _begged_ him to stop) but Sylar still stood by the belief that these tears weren't spawned from physical pain. Or from the humiliation of losing a fight to Sylar of all people.

 

The frown on Peter's purpled face deepened as the silence stretched on. Sylar was getting closer to the “apologise” side of the see-saw, but instead of saying what needed to be said, instead he just reached his fingertips to Peter's elbow lightly. Unsurprisingly, the paramedic flinched at the contact and recoiled, making as if to run away. “Wait!” Sylar blurted out. “You want to say something, don't you? You need to get something off your chest...?”

 

Peter scoffed, throat sticky with blood. At least there was more conviction in his voice now. Sylar hoped his previous meek little attempt wouldn't haunt him for too long. “Right. As if I'd tell _you_ anything!” He spat blood again. But while his tone and words clearly screamed “fuck off”, his curled little body screamed “help me”.

 

Things had escalated very quickly, and all the venom fuelling Sylar's fire earlier had drained from his bones. He hated himself for what he'd done. He himself had survived the fight with no more than a few aches and pains and a split lip, which felt laughably insignificant in comparison to Peter's many afflictions. Maybe he _was_ still the monster Peter thought he was after all? It sure felt that way.

 

Going on a gut instinct (which was a pretty big deal, those buggers seemed to get him killed a lot), Sylar reached for Peter's arm again and gently guided him down to the ground, where the two men sat stiffly side by side on the pavement.

 

“You can talk to me Peter. I might not understand whatever it is, but I'm all ears.”

It took less than five seconds for Peter's resolve to come tumbling down, and he launched into a tearful and heartfelt rendition of his fears and insecurities. He admitted that he couldn't stand the thought of doing this same routine on repeat forever, while he knows there are people that need help, _his_ help, waiting in the outside world. He confessed that he didn't want to be trapped here until his living body gave out in Parkman's damp basement, and that even if that did happen, he feared that nobody would even miss him.

 

He pushed his hair back from his face, now stringy with a concoction of sweat, blood and tears, and blinked red eyes at the ground. His voice was thick and nasally due to his blocked sinuses and more than a little self-pity. “I think Ma... my mother would cry for me. But no where near as much as she did for N...” the name was too much, but the lack of one carried further anyway. “She probably wouldn't even compare the impact of _my_ death to his. There's no comparison. Claire would be upset I think. But really, I haven't heard from her in so long, and now that Nath... now that _he's_ gone, there's nothing to really link me and Claire anyway. I was always the afterthought.” Peter sniffed, keeping his attention anywhere but on the figure beside him. It was just easier to get all of this out without thinking of who it was listening. It didn't really matter anyway. It just mattered that someone was. “And Emma... the last time I saw her... I made her cry. I was trying to do the right thing, as usual, but of course it backfired in my face, as usual. And now I've lost my only friend... but none of that even fucking matters 'cause I'm gonna die here! Stuck, alone, with _you._ ”

 

Sylar felt his stomach contract with an extra dollop of guilt when the topic landed on him. Of course it would, but he still didn't like the way “misery” and “Sylar” went hand in hand in Peter's life. Not that it was Peter's fault, he was more than justified in that opinion.

 

Peter scrubbed at his face again, ignoring the painful friction against his broken skin, but it had been void of fresh tears for the past few minutes. He let out a hiccuping laugh, so far beyond despair that it was beginning to seem funny from his skewed perception. “The truth is, Sylar... you think I had it all... but I'm more like you than you realise. I don't think anyone has ever actually cared about me in my whole life. My parents are jokes, all my “friends” don't even think about me unless they need me for something, and I've never had a relationship last longer than a few months. And all of those ended not in my favour.”

 

Sylar resisted the urge to rub Peter's back supportively. He hated pitying people (all his years as poor, nervous Gabriel being pitied by others had done that), but currently he ached in tandem with Peter's emotions. It was horrible to learn these things about Peter, who Sylar had always assumed had it easy and no reason to complain about his perfect life. This was all news to him. Even Nathan's memories provided no argument to this displeasing information, as clearly the guy hadn't even paid close enough attention to his little brother's life to know the truth. Even if the politician hadn't been aware that he'd been a pretty disappointing brother, at least he had truly thought he'd done well. Honestly, it was quite sad. “I really hope that's not true. If a hero like you: kind, selfless and always the good guy can't get the happy ending... then there's no hope in hell for me.”

Humourless, cracked chuckles spurted from Peter, and Sylar couldn't help his own lips from twitching in response. It started as giggles, but soon both men were full-out laughing at their hopeless misery in the middle of the deserted street in the deserted world.

 

What a strange, fucked up day this had turned into, Sylar thought. But if anything could be taken away from it, it was that Peter was much stronger emotionally than even Sylar had given him credit for. No matter how lacklustre his situation, he still found the will and courage to carry on and try to help the very people who left him in the dirt afterwards. That was enviable. It was also very inspiring.

 

“There _was_ someone who cared about you, y'know.” Sylar found himself saying before he had even decided he was going to. “Nath-”

 

“Don't!” Peter lifted a hand briskly to cut off the rest of the word. “Don't even start with that.” The short lived humour and amity between the two faded, and Sylar could practically _feel_ Peter retreating back into himself again. “I'm only telling you these things, Sylar, 'cause I need to say them aloud to someone and...” Peter looked around openly in pretend surprise. “ _You're_ the only person here. This doesn't mean that I've forgiven you, and don't even think I'm getting over what you did.”

 

“I don't think that.” Sylar admitted quietly. “But just so you know, as long as you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me.” The look of complete disbelief was more than a little insulting, but Sylar pushed on regardless. “We have to be there for each other. The next... however long we're here won't be easy. I'm sure there will be more days like this one to come, and there's nobody else we can turn to but the two of us. You might not like it, Peter, but that's the way it is. When we make mistakes we have to deal with the repercussions.” He looked painfully over Peter's blood encrusted face, those eyes still attempting to blink at him stupidly.

 

Sylar couldn't help but find it sadistically funny how he was still more accustomed to seeing Peter with blood on him than he was without. He hoped that would change sometime. “Let me see...” He crooned gently, extending a hand for Peter's face the way Peter had for him so many times after losing a fight spectacularly.

 

But Peter once again shrugged away from his touch. “Don't bother, there's no point.” But Sylar persisted, maybe as a little way towards apologising without actually saying it, and maybe as a little way towards feeling that face again but this time with a gentle, caring touch. As if to counteract the last time he had touched it.

 

This time Peter allowed it, all the fight in him drained for one day. Although, he was right, there was really no point to the medical check-ups they sometimes employed, other than to let the acting doctor ease their guilt a little by at least feeling like they were doing something to help. Already Peter's cuts were minutely stitching themselves back together and fading into the scars they would be until those, too, faded a few days from now. The puffiness and swelling was dying down, and that pretty face was forming back together even as Sylar watched. He could feel the familiar tingling and tickling on his own skin as his mirrored the same trick.

 

It hadn't taken them long to discover that a weak, delayed version of regeneration still worked for them both. Not long at all. It was yet another curse in this cursed realm, and in the years before Peter, sometimes Sylar had wished he was capable of dying just to end it all. He had stabbed himself, walked through fire and jumped from the tallest building in the city, only to get back up and continue to live another day in the eternal cycle.

 

But mostly, now that he had company, Sylar was grateful for his inability to die. And also for the comfort that, no matter how hard they punched the other's lights out, there was no danger of accidentally killing anyone and being alone again. Although, it annoyed Sylar that this seemed to be the only ability they could make work no matter how hard they both tried. Peter insisted it was because this was a dream concocted in Matt Parkman's head, and so they weren't really in their bodies and couldn't get permanently hurt. But Sylar still couldn't fully warm to the idea, choosing instead to believe their bodies kicked in the healing factor automatically when they needed it, which meant there was still hope that his other precious abilities might somehow be restored to him also.

With a sleepy groan, Peter fell backwards and stretched his legs out into the street, making himself as comfortable as he could on the hard ground, which wasn't much. The sun was almost setting, casting long shadows of the buildings upon them, and he knew there was no point to keep working at the wall for today. Very bravely, considering he'd just practically had his skull smashed in not so long ago, Peter closed his eyes and settled down to some semblance of rest right in Sylar's immediate company.

 

It felt nice, Sylar decided, to be trusted like that, even if that was all he would get. At least it was a small indication that Peter had let his guard down a little concerning the mass-murderer. There had been a time when he would never even turn his back on Sylar, let alone fall asleep near or beside him. His healing nose whistled as he breathed.

 

Looking down at Peter, now knowing what he hadn't even an hour ago, it was clear to see that really, this man wasn't so different than the innocent, naïve, hopeful and optimistic idiot who had cornered him in Odesssa with no hope of leaving alive. It was difficult to remember sometimes that this was the same Peter that had sacrificed himself to protect a stranger all those years ago. But here he was now: hardened by years of betrayal and fighting, that youthful, hopeful air tainted by seeing too much. And he was bogged down by the expectations of everyone he knew: as he'd said, they all just expected that he would always be there to help them with whatever problem they had that day, then be happy to discard him afterwards as if he meant nothing. But now Sylar could see more similarities than just that ever-youthful face and lovely, floppy hair. And he definitely envied his companion. He wished that _he_ could have kept some part of himself from before all this, the better person he used to be. Not the weak parts, but just enough to make the transition back from monster to human being easier. He thought he was getting the hang of it, that day by day he could feel the tiniest fragments of Gabriel coming back to him, but it was a struggle and would take a long time to complete the evolution. Peter made it look so easy.

 

“I'm sorry, Peter.” He whispered, a pointless action when the only person that could overhear him was the one person he wanted to.

 

“Hmmm, for what?” Peter said loudly without opening his eyes, sounding impatient.

 

“For today, I'm sorry for today. Your face...” Sylar quickly amended, not quite ready to take full responsibility for all of his past heinous actions just yet. Peter shifted a little, hands behind his head to provide a weak cushion for his still pounding head.

 

“That's what I thought.” He said smartly, the tiniest hope that this was the start of the true acknowledgement of sins fading back into no more than an idea. Sylar tried not to feel the flicker of annoyance at Peter's arrogance (emphasised by his seemingly relaxed, reclining position), and Peter must have felt the bristle in the air, because he added. “I appreciate that. I accept your apology.”

 

“...Wh...? Really?”

 

“Yeah.” Peter said with a little chuckle, as if it was obvious. He opened his eyes and lifted himself onto one elbow so he was facing Sylar, wincing at his still tender bruises. “It's hardly the worst thing either of us have done. Lets not bog down the too-long list of mistakes so enthusiastically, alright? Just don't do it again.”

 

A blessed, hopeful little smile lit up Sylar's face. Could this be the start of it? Really? Perhaps today's fight _had_ worked after all, perhaps Peter was finally beginning to see beneath the cracks of the persona he refused to forget. “Thank you. I won't. If you don't do it again either.” His smile broadened, unused to sharing the same mind space for once. It was unfamiliar, but he was sure he could get used to it.

 

“What?! You're the one who started it! You attacked me for no reason!” Peter exclaimed, quickly getting enraged. Okay, so maybe not quite the same mind space.

 

“Yeah, but only because you wouldn't give me a chance to prove I've changed. That I'm really trying to be good now.” Sylar reasoned calmly.

 

Peter blinked dubious eyes at him. “And for some reason you thought the best way to convince me was to beat my face in worse than you ever have before? Yup, that'll sell it alright...” He watched unsympathetically while Sylar shifted a little under the dawning that he might not have been in the right after all.

 

“I already said I'm sorry.” His voice was small, but he kept his gaze locked intently onto Peter's. He might feel more sympathy for the guy now, but that didn't change the fact that he wouldn't go down tepidly. Yet another game of authority was taking place in Peter's patch, yet Sylar already knew he was losing. “I didn't know what else to do, you weren't giving me any help. Any sign that you even cared how hard I'm trying.”

 

“So it's all my fault again? I deserved that..? Look what you did to me!”

 

“No, no... I didn't mean that. I was just scared that you would never believe in me. I need to have some motivation, Peter. And, as you've so kindly pointed out: you're all that's here.” Silence once more, but this time it lacked all the poison and nastiness from before. Again, that was an improvement. For today anyway. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring. “Do you ever think you could...? Have faith in me...?”

 

There it was, the very central trait that made up all of Peter's being: empathy, unmistakable and glorious, glinting behind his eyes. It wasn't much, but it gave Sylar hope. Peter sighed, tucking his overgrown hair away from his face.“I dunno... maybe. I dunno. Just give me time, Sylar. You can't force this on me, that's not fair.”

 

“Okay. Time. It's not like that's hard to come by here.” He agreed, and after a few awkward moments Peter warily took Sylar's outstretched hand and shook it. That was a “possibly”, Sylar rationalised. Not a full-out “yes”, not a complete, soul-crushing “no”. It could be worse.

 

Their skin seemed to tingle where it touched, palm to palm and fingertips to the smooth skin on the backs of their hands. The contact was new and unfamiliar to them both, and just another new cog in the ever spinning mechanism of their overly complicated relationship.

 

Surely that must be a good thing, Sylar hoped with another braved smile. This time he got one in return, but it was short lived when the healing cut on Peter's lip threatened to rip open again and he winced.

 

Both men didn't know how to feel about that day's events. They'd had breakfast in their separate apartments as usual, Peter had spent most of the day working on the wall with Sylar pretending not to be watching while he read close-by as usual... but the almost heart-to-heart after the fight had been so bizarre and unlike any experience they'd yet to encounter together. It tempted a truce, redemption... friendship, eventually.

 

In the end it all came down to time. What past misdeeds would the ticking seconds erase, or at least soften until the edges no longer stabbed? Sylar couldn't be sure (with Peter he could hardly be sure of anything) but he felt safe enough to imagine a better future than where they were now.

And it's not like they didn't _have_ time, after all. Time was all they had. Time, and each other.

 

 


End file.
